Preacher and the Mountain Caesar

by William W. Johnstone

  Steam escaped from Preacher. “That ain’t true. Not a word of it. I’ve never begrudged a man a bite to eat, iffin he be friendly.” He drew up suddenly. “Say, who was it told you I made a body fight for his meal?”

  Tookes looked him straight in the eyes. “Bloody Hand Kreuger, that’s who.”

  “That Kraut is a liar, plain and simple. An’ I’d say it to his face if he was present to hear it. There’s a bit of—ah—bad blood betwixt us. Has been for a few years now. I ride my trails, an’ he rides his. We both like it that way.”

  One-Eye wouldn’t let it go. “Might be he knows something about these strange doin’s in the High Lonesome. Story is he’s been up north the last couple of years. That bein’ where all this riffraff is headed, he could be the key to what’s goin’ on.”

  Preacher made a face. “I’d as soon kiss a wolverine as be beholdin’ to Karl Kreuger by askin’ him about it.”

  Both guests came to their boots and ankled it over to their already loaded packhorses. They adjusted the cinch straps while speculating further on the meaning behind the recent intrusions. Tookes summed it up for the three of them.

  “You ask me, it’s gonna mean trouble. Too many of those light-in-the-saddle types driftin’ up outta Texas ain’t good for man nor beast. They all think they’re good with a gun and proddy as Billy-be-damned. If we run across Bloody Hand, you don’t mind if we ask him what he knows, do ya, Preacher?”

  “Nope. Go right ahead. You ask me, though, I say we’ll learn what is going on soon enough anyhow.”

  Bart Weller, the worrier of the partners, agreed, then added, “We should hope we don’t learn of it to our regret.”

  * * *

  Arms tightly around each other, Terry and Vickie clung close together. Each could feel the warmth of the other through their thin nightshirts. There was nothing arousing about it, only comforting. They were too bony; Terry knew that for certain. Far too little to eat. He and Vickie were always treated like outcasts. As though they did not belong to the family. When he had been littler, they had both cried about that. Now he was too old for things like that.

  He had to find a way for them to get something more out of life than stealing and lying and sneaking around. He refused to think about the killing. He hugged his sister tightly and whispered in her ear. “Are you awake?”

  “Yep. So are you,” Vickie observed with the logic of a ten-year-old.

  “I hate it here,” Terry muttered softly.

  “So do I,” Vickie agreed.

  Terry gathered courage. “Sometimes I think the thing we best do is to run away for real.”

  Vickie stiffened, her eyes suddenly bright in the starlight that seeped through the tiny window in their loft room. “Do you mean it, Terry? Really mean it?”

  “Y-yes, I do. D-do you want to?”

  “We . . . could try. When? Oh, when, Terry?”

  Terry gave that considerable thought. “Why not the next time Poppa sends us out? We could go and just keep going.”

  “To where?”

  “Somewhere. Anywhere. We could find something.”

  Vickie had become quite agitated. Her slender form trembled against that of her brother. “Let’s do it. Please, let’s do it.”

  After a long moment, Terry answered in a hollow whisper. “All right, we will.”

  * * *

  Chance decided it in the end. Philadelphia Braddock had been of several minds as to where to go for the approaching winter. He had a standing invite from two old friends who had a tidy cabin on the Snake River. They put out a good table, what with smoked salmon, plenty of elk and venison, a root cellar full of camus bulbs, wild onions, yucca root, some grown turnips and other eatables. Yet, they also kept a pouch of juniper berries to flavor the raw, white liquor they distilled each summer for the following cold time.

  When they drank that awful stuff, they got snake-pissin’ mean. Philadelphia could not count the number of times he had been caught up in one of their brawls. The two of them spent most of each winter covered with lumps and bruises. And Lord help the outsider who strayed within range of their fists. Naw, he concluded. He’d best avoid that situation.

  He also had a standing welcome from the Crow to visit them in Montana Territory. They had always been friendly to the whites exploring in their land. He even knew he would have a nice, tractable bed warmer to occupy his lodge. Only Philadelphia reckoned as how he had more than his share of half-Crow youngsters runnin’ around the High Plains already. No need to build another.

  That left him with the long journey to Bent’s Fort. In this late year of eighteen and forty-eight, the place was but a pale shadow of its past glory. Only two factors remained, neither of them related to the Bent brothers. There’d be whiskey. Good, clean whiskey, aged in barrels and filtered through charcoal. But a winter there would cost him an arm and a leg. The soft, deerskin pouch around his neck still hung with respectable weight, but the gold would be soon gone at Bent’s. Better pass that up for another day.

  Which brought him to his final choice. He could head southeast and check out the Ferris Mountains in Wyoming. If that didn’t suit, and the weather held, he could go on south to Trout Creek Pass. There, he had heard, some of the good old boys had taken to hanging out over the cold months. He could jaw a little, play cards and checkers, and have a warm bunk to roll up in at night. No pliable Crow girl, nor any hard floosie, for that matter, but a comfort to a man getting on in his years.

  By jing! That’s just what he would do. Check out the rumors about a man willing to pay out real gold for fighting men in the Ferris Range; then, if it didn’t pan out, he’d go on to Colorado country and the High Lonesome. He might even run into his old sometime partner, Preacher. What with the fur trade all but moribund, Preacher and some of the old boys had taken to hanging a mite closer to civilized living. Might be he could benefit by that, too.

  Philadelphia Braddock clucked to his packhorse and yanked on the rope around its neck. Long ride to Trout Creek, but only a day or two now to this outfit in the Ferris Mountains. He’d give them a took-see—that’s what he’d do.

  3

  Three days later, in a wide valley, set off by seven low hills, Philadelphia Braddock stumbled upon a sight he could not believe. Alabaster buildings shined from the crests of several of the seven hills that clustered in the upland vale. It became obvious to Philadelphia that some serious construction work was going on along the slopes of the three still vacant hills. Flat, layered plain trees had replaced the usual aspen, and tall, slender pines, of a blue-gray color Philadelphia had never seen before, lined a wide, white, cobblestone roadway that led from the south end of the basin to tall gates in what looked like a plastered stone wall that surrounded a portion of the four occupied hills. From his angle, Philadelphia could not tell if the rampart ran all the way around. This was one whing-ding of a puzzler.

  He had never heard of any settlement sprouting up in the Ferris Mountains. Certainly nothing like this. Why, it was a regular city. “I’ll be blessed,” he said aloud to his horse.

  The animal replied with a snort and shake of its massive head. A spray of slobber put diamonds in the air. A peremptory stomp of a hoof drew Philadelphia’s attention to a knot of men who broke off from the workers, one of them pointing in his direction. Too far off to see details, the former trapper decided to wait them out. When they drew nearer, he noted that the men wore bright red capotes—no, he corrected himself, longer than the ubiquitous mountain man garb, more like cloaks. A horseman joined them.

  “Odd-looking fellers,” Braddock advised his mount, while he patted the visibly nervous beast with one hand to calm it.

  When they came even closer, he saw that they wore over-skirts of leather strips studded with brass knobs. Below that, they wore short skirts. For a giddy moment, Philadelphia wondered if they might be sissies. On their heads they had brown, leather-covered pots of some sort. Odder still, he noted, they carried lances and shields, like Injuns. He changed his exam
ination of the approaching men to the one on horseback.

  Wasn’t he a sight! He had an even longer capote, scarlet in color, with shiny brass coverings on his legs, chest and helmet—for that’s what it was, bright red roach of horsehair and all. The polished cheek pieces were shaped something like oak leaves. Then Philadelphia made out another feller, who jogged along behind the horse. He held some sort of long pole with a big metal banner on top. On closer examination, Braddock saw that it was an eagle, with spread wings, head turned in profile, and something written under it.

  Now, old Philadelphia wasn’t too strong on reading, but he could make out his letters as good as any man. These read: S.P.Q.R.

  Within seconds, the rider reined up right close to Philadelphia, rudely crowding his space. He pulled a short, leaf-bladed sword and pointed it somewhere above Braddock’s head. “Hold, there, barbarian!” the man bellowed with all the officiousness of a government man in a swallowtail coat. “What business have you in Nova Roma?”

  From habit, Philadelphia made the plains sign for coming in peace as he spoke. “I was only lookin’ for a place to hole up for winter. An’ I ain’t no barbarian.”

  Glowering, the challenger proved arrogant enough to not need to consult anyone about his opinion. “This is not the place. Unless you bear a scroll of safe passage, you are trespassing on the territory of Nova Roma.”

  Philadelphia’s forehead furrowed. “I ain’t got no paper on me.”

  His interrogator motioned two men forward with his sword as he spoke. “Then you are under arrest. You will be put to work with the rest of the slaves, to build our magnificent city.”

  Philadelphia Braddock did not like that one bit. His eyes narrowed. “Is that so? How long do you reckon I’ll be doin’ that?”

  “Until you prove your worth to be a citizen of Nova Roma.”

  “That long, huh?” Philadelphia followed his first instinct.

  His reins given a turn around the saddle horn, Braddock moved swiftly, hands closing around the handstocks of a brace of .64 caliber Chambers horse pistols. He yanked them free before any of the startled soldiers could react. The muzzles centered on the two closest to him, and he blazed away.

  Loud, flat reports shattered the bird-twittering silence, and twin smoke clouds obscured everything for a moment. His actions served his purpose, Philadelphia observed as the greasy gray mass whipped away on a light breeze. The two who were to arrest him lay on the ground, writhing, shot X-wise through their right shoulders. The footmen had scattered, and the snarling leader had been put to flight.

  “Appears to me you need a lesson in manners, fellers,” Braddock told them.

  Satisfied with the results, Philadelphia reholstered the discharged pistols and slid his Hawken rifle free of its scabbard. With a final, careful appraisal of his would-be foe, he turned the head of his mount to the south and started off, away from this inhospitable place. By then, one of the footmen had recovered himself enough to spring up on his sandals and cock his arm, the hand holding his pilum behind his right ear. He let the spear fly with deadly accuracy.

  Sharp pain radiated through Braddock’s right shoulder as the smooth point penetrated flesh and bone and pinned his shoulder blade to his ribs. Stunned by the sudden, enormous pain, Philadelphia nevertheless managed to swivel at the hips and bring up his Hawken. Leveled on his assailant’s chest, Braddock cocked and triggered the weapon. The big, fat .56 caliber conical bullet smashed through the soldier’s sternum and ripped a big hole in his aorta.

  His sandals left the ground, and he crashed backward head over heels, to sprawl in the dirt. His valiant heart rapidly pumped the life from his body. Philadelphia Braddock did not wait to check his results, though. He put boot heels to the heaving flanks of his mount and sprinted for the distant pass that opened on the white cobblestone roadway.

  With each thud of a hoof, new agony shot through Philadelphia’s body. The lance flopped wildly up and down, caught in his muscular back. He did not stop, though, until safely beyond the crest of the ridge. Then he scabbarded his Hawken and painfully wrenched the pilum from the wound it had made. His last thought was, What the hell did I stumble into? Only then did he allow himself to pass out.

  * * *

  Preacher began his morning with the usual grumping about, slurping coffee too hot and strong to bear for normal persons, and a lot of scratching. He interspersed these activities with a lick of a brown wooden lead pencil and careful application of it to a scrap of precious paper.

  He preferred the newfangled gypsum plaster for chinking logs in his cabin walls. Clay mud did all right, he allowed, but often came with an unwelcome harvest of bugs. He also needed some nails to hold door and window frames together and to build furniture for his digs. When he saw the size of his list, he decided to call it a day for the work in progress and head off for Trout Creek Pass and the trading post.

  He could also pick up flour, cornmeal, beans, sugar and more coffee beans. With the meat he had already killed, dressed out and smoked, he figured to be set for the long, cold months just around the corner. But he would also have to get a bag of salt. He had not as yet built a corral, so he had to chase down his hobbled mount, the big roan, Cougar, and the sorrel gelding packhorse. That accomplished, he carefully stored all his supplies safely out of the way of raccoons, bears, and wolves alike, and departed. He didn’t even cast a casual glance over the graves of those who had so recently come to kill him.

  * * *

  Slowly, the late-summer, pale blue sky frosted over with a thin skein of high cirrus clouds. At first, Preacher paid it no mind. The weather often did this in late August. An hour later, the leaden overcast had blotted out the sun and brought a single worry that furrowed to Preacher’s brow. What the heck. It was too early to snow, he felt certain of that.

  Fat, black bellies slid low over the highest peaks an hour and a half later, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees, and Preacher began to worry about how close winter really was with this harbinger of a late-August snowstorm. Odd, he considered. Even a tenderfoot counted on snow not beginning in the High Lonesome before September.

  Had his mental calendar slipped a cog? No, not likely. Shoot, the big, gray Canadian honkers had not yet put in their annual appearance far below and beyond the eastern slopes of the Shining Mountains. What a joy they were to observe from on high, their heavily populated vee formations winging their way south for the winter. With the same regularity they used to hail the approach of the cold, each spring they were also the first heralds of warm weather returning. Yet, it seemed that this time nature had even outsmarted them.

  Tiny flakes, invisible to the eye, began to land on Preacher’s face and the backs of his hands. Cold and wet, they did not remain for long. Their bigger brothers and sisters would be along soon enough for that, Preacher reasoned. He began to take closer note of his surroundings. One of these northers could blow up in a matter of minutes, and a man caught in the open would soon be buzzard meat. Temperatures could, and often did, drop forty degrees in less than ten minutes.

  Given that this late in August, the high for the day hovered around forty-eight to fifty, that could have fatal results. Memory played its map pages in his mind. A ways farther south, he knew, there was an old cabin, part of a failed mining attempt. Beyond that, in a rocky gorge, another small cabin fronted a natural cave. Preacher had often wanted to poke around in there, only to have circumstances get in the way. He would put his trust in his own instincts and see how far he got.

  For, no matter what he hoped for, he knew dang well it was going to snow. “Best eat some ground, Cougar,” he advised his trustworthy mount.

  The invisible flakes changed to freezing rain half a mile along the trail toward Trout Creek Pass. Preacher broke out a sheepskin jacket and bundled up, the collar pulled high. His breath came in frosty plumes. Cougar snorted regular clouds of white. No question, this one would be a heller.

  * * *

  Fat, wet flakes drifted downward, twi
rled by the flukey breeze that sent them skyward again, or into spirals that danced vertically across the ground. Little cold pinpricks where they lighted on the exposed skin of Preacher, they grew steadily in number. Before he could account the time, Preacher observed that the horizon ahead of him had been curtained off by a swirling wall of gray-white.

  In a place where visibility usually stretched on forever, unless impeded by a mountain peak, Preacher could not see even half a mile off. And, dang it, he’d been caught out away from any of the shelters he knew of. Better than two miles to the cave, about three-quarters of a mile to the mine. He took time to wrap a bandana around his head, tied it under the chin, to protect his ears, plopped his hat on his head again and turned up his collar.

  “Cougar,” he advised his roan horse, “we’re deep in the buffalo chips if we don’t find shelter. Just keep a-movin’, boy.”

  Over the next half hour, the snowstorm turned into a regular, full-blown blizzard. Preacher remained silent through the ordeal, batting his eyelashes rapidly to blink away the clinging flakes that settled after icily caressing his face. Only the largest tree trunks stood out as black slashes in the thick, wild gyration of white. So dense was the downfall that he almost missed the cabin over the mineshaft when he at last came to it.

  Preacher saw the reason for that soon enough. Over the years, the abandoned place had sagged to a ruin that more resembled a raw outcrop of rock than a man-made structure. No relief from the storm here, right enough, Preacher regretfully realized. He must push on for the cave, and hope that last year’s thunderstorms and resulting fires had not destroyed the cabin there.

  Numbness had crept into Preacher’s fingers and toes a quarter hour later when he stopped to pull a thick pair of wool socks over his feet and return them to the suddenly chilled boots. Fool, he chided himself. He should have thought to bring along gloves. Or those rabbit-fur mittens, a leftover from the previous winter.

  His world had become a wall of white now. To rely on dead reckoning to navigate from one place to another was to lead oneself astray, Preacher reminded himself. And to stay where he was invited a slow death by freezing. He had heard most of his life that it was peaceful, going that way. Then he snorted with derision. Who in hell had ever come back to tell about how easy it was?